The writing was in a large scrawling hand, and the scrap ran: _You alone_ _me alone_ _Block B_ _Graft_ “‘Me alone… you alone,’” read Yale. “‘Block B… Graft’?” He shook his head. “It is Greek to me.” He balanced the letter upon the palm of his hand and shook his head. “I can’t even feel an impression,” he said. “Fire destroys the aura.” Parr carefully put away the scrap into his case and replaced it in his pocket. “There is another thing I’d like to tell you,” he said. “Somebody was in the wood who wore pointed shoes and smoked cigars. I found the cigar ashes in a little hollow, and his footprint was on the flower-beds.” “Near the house?” asked Derrick Yale, startled. The solid man nodded. “My own theory is,” he went on, “that somebody wanted to warn Beardmore, wrote this letter and brought it to the house after dark. It must have been received by the old man, because he burnt it. I found the ashes in the place where the servants dump their cinders.” There was a gentle tap at the door. “Jack Beardmore,” said Yale under his breath. Jack Beardmore showed signs of the distressing period through which he had passed. He nodded to Parr and came toward Yale with outstretched hand. “No news, I suppose?” he asked, and turning to the other: “You were at the house yesterday, Mr. Parr. Did you find anything?” “Nothing worth speaking about,” said Parr. “I’ve just been to see Froyant, he is in town,” said Jack. “It wasn’t a very successful visit, for he is in a pitiable state of nerves.” He did not explain that the unsatisfactory part of his call was that he had not seen Thalia Drummond, and only one of the men guessed the reason of his disappointment. Derrick Yale told him of the arrest which had been made. “I don’t want you to build any hopes on this,” he said, “even if he is the man who fired the shot, he is certain to be no more than the agent. We shall probably hear the same story as we heard before, that he was in low water and that the chief of the Crimson Circle induced him to commit the act. We are as far from the real solution as ever we have been.” They strolled out of the office together, into the clean autumn sunlight. Jack, who had an engagement with a lawyer who was settling his father’s estate, accompanied the two men, who were on their way to catch a train for the town where the suspected murderer was detained. They were passing through one of the busiest streets when Jack uttered an exclamation. On the opposite side of the road was a big pawnbroker’s, and a girl was coming from the side entrance devoted to the service of those who needed temporary loans. “Well, I’m blessed!” It was Parr’s unemotional voice. “I haven’t seen her for two years.” Jack turned on him open-eyed. “Haven’t seen her for two years,” he said slowly. “Are you referring to that lady?” Parr nodded. “I’m referring to Thalia Drummond,” he said calmly, “who is a crook and a companion of crooks!” Chapter VII. The Stolen Idol